


I Can Be Handy

by spreadyovrwings



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: F/M, slight sub!deaky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22989382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spreadyovrwings/pseuds/spreadyovrwings
Summary: You meet John Deacon through your friend Roger after you complain about your radio needing fixing. Soon you find yourself coming up with excuses to keep him coming back again, and again, and again.
Relationships: John Deacon/Reader, John Deacon/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	I Can Be Handy

Post-university life hadn’t been kind to you. Perhaps that was an exaggeration but some days, you just felt like sitting in a dark room with your record player, or giving up altogether, packing your bags and heading home. 

You were rather proud of yourself at first, being able to hold down a reasonably steady job and keep up a reasonably nice flat, it was a twenty-something year old’s dream. But the novelty wore off eventually, and now your cute little flat felt poky and the city was noisy at night. 

You and your roommate passed like ships in the night, only seeing each other at dinner before she went out to start her shift at the hospital, or at breakfast when she came home, too exhausted from nursing to hold a real conversation.

You’d been managing fairly well despite the dodgy landlord and the surprising feeling of loneliness you thought was odd living in such a bustling city. 

The straw that broke the camel’s back was your little radio breaking, one of your most cherished possessions. You’d brought it with you from home, one of the only connections to your childhood that you had with you. It had kept you company on lonely nights and even though you knew it was stupid, it was enough to bring you to tears.

You were complaining about it one night in the pub. Poor Roger had to sit and listen to you whine for almost twenty minutes before he finally made a suggestion.

“I’ve got a mate could probably sort that for you.”

You narrowed your eyes dubiously over the rim of your glass. You’d known Roger since university and he was one of your only friends, though sometimes you questioned why. He was lovely, but cheeky and prone to flirting with you, which you didn’t mind but it wasn’t always constructive.

“What does Freddie know about fixing radios?”

Roger scowled.

“I have more than one friend.”

“Yeah, _me_.”

“Shove off.”

“Brian, then.”

Roger sighed, starting to wonder why he even bothered.

“His name’s John.”

“He’s your bassist, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, and?”

You shrugged, taking a sip of your drink.

“Just think it’s funny that all your mates are in your band.”

Roger dug his fingers into the little dish of peanuts between you and flicked one at your face.

“You want his help or not?”

You grunted as the nut bounced off your nose and landed somewhere near the barman, who gave you a dark look. 

Grumbling, you flicked it away, resigning yourself to the idea of this stranger handling your most prized possession, and worse, having to fork out the money for it. It was a bad week made worse. You couldn’t bear the thought of a stranger in your flat, especially in the state it was in at the moment, but you supposed you had no other choice.

“You sure he can do it?”

You hadn’t met their new bassist yet, though you’d heard a lot about him. Roger had come over raving one night, excited because they’d finally found an excellent musician whose personality and style also fit theirs.

It’d been a long time since you saw Queen play live, not since just after uni, so you hadn’t seen them as a complete set. You were the proud owner of their first two albums, so you supposed you’d seen John’s face before, even if it was half in shadow, but other than that, you knew nothing about him.

Roger swirled the last of the foam around the bottom of his pint glass, watching the bubbles slide over each other for a moment before he ordered you both another drink with a flick of his wrist.

“He did electrical engineering at uni. Dead good with that sort of thing. He made his own amp. I’ll bring him round, shall I?”

* * *

You were trying to make lunch when there was a loud knock at the door. You sighed, letting your knife clatter against the counter with a little more force than necessary, hoping that Roger would somehow hear it from out in the hall and know that you were cross with him.

It was Saturday, the only day that Roger and his friend were free to come over, and you’d been waiting all morning for them. When Roger told you that John had agreed and they’d be over at the weekend, you’d complained. You couldn’t wait around all day for him and a boy that you didn’t even know. But Roger quickly reminded you that you wouldn’t have any plans anyway and as much as you hated to admit it, the bastard was right.

Roger grinned when you opened the door, clearly enjoying the dark look on your face. You didn’t mind. In fact, you barely noticed him. You were too busy staring at the boy next to him.

Roger was pretty. He was proud of it, all soft features and china-blue eyes. His friend Freddie, too, was pretty, with his fantastic, almost feline features, always swathed in shimmering colours like a dragonfly’s wing. Brian’s profile could make any sculptor gasp, his voice soft and gentle. But John, John was beautiful. You’d never seen a boy so beautiful.

“Hi,” you murmured, your mind going completely blank.

John smiled at you, a shy smile but bright, one that made little creases appear by his eyes.

“Hi,” he said, and his smile grew.

There was a gap between his teeth. It was fucking _resplendent_.

“Hello, darlin’,” Roger pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and grinned at you. “Kettle on?”

He barged past you into the flat like he always did. Roger was over so often, this flat was almost his second home, much to your chagrin. It was difficult to wallow in self-pity when Roger Taylor was sprawled out on your sofa, ciggie in one hand and drink in the other, talking about the new album he’d bought in his lovely raspy voice.

His shoulder bumping against yours was enough to wake you up. You gave John a wobbly sort of smile, trying to regain all of your scattered senses, but then he shyly brushed at his nose with his thumb, and you lost them all again.

“Come in,” you stepped aside, sweeping your arm out to invite him in. “Make yourself at home. Roger does.”

John thanked you quietly. He stood in the centre of your living room, unlike Roger, who had walked right into the kitchen and was clattering around with something.

You watched John look around with careful curiosity, not wanting to appear like he was being nosey but obviously interested in your hopefully charmingly messy flat.

“Mine’s two sugars, Rog.”

John nodded, giving you another lovely crinkly-eyed smile that made you feel a little giddy.

“And mine.”

He looked down at the carpet, then took his hands out of his pockets and tucked some of his long hair back over his shoulder. Dark brown and wavy, it framed his lovely face. His fingers were long, he was wearing a ring. _Stop staring at his hands!_

You glanced into the kitchen and saw Roger helping himself to the sandwich you’d been making. You didn’t mind. You were too busy trying to figure out exactly what colour John’s eyes were. 

You thought about Freddie’s palette, he’d shown it to you one day when you were round his and Roger’s flat. He used it to help him design clothes and for his paintings. You tried to remember the darker hues in the corner. 

_Forest green, perhaps?_

You chewed the side of your thumbnail, waiting for John to say something, but he didn’t. Roger was humming happily to himself in the kitchen as he clinked mugs together and carelessly flung the teaspoon into the sink. Finally, the silence became too awful and you had to say something.

“It’s nice to meet you at last. Rog talks about you all the time. Can’t believe it’s taken this long.”

John appeared to find it difficult to hold your gaze for too long. Unlike Roger, who oozed self-confidence, often to a fault, his friend seemed shy, quiet, and it made your heart melt. 

_Sage? Fern? Tea leaves?_

“He talks about you too. Feels like we’ve already met.”

You beamed at him. That was _very_ sweet. John’s voice was so lovely, so gentle and lilting, you could hear his smile in it. 

You knew your cheeks must be a little pink. You just prayed Roger hadn’t told him anything too embarrassing about you, or recalled any stories of you being an idiot, inebriated or otherwise. 

_But there’s grey in there too. Green and grey. Warmth and intelligence at the same time. Had they invented a colour as pretty as that?_

“You enjoying being in the band?”

“Yeah, yes, they’re-”

Roger stuck his head out of the kitchen door.

“Oi, where’s your biscuits, love?”

“We ain’t got any.”

He grumbled and went back into the kitchen, and you gave John an apologetic smile, though he seemed unfazed by your arguing. 

You and Roger had always been at each other’s throats, it was just how you communicated. It hid just how much you really cared about each other, not that either of you would ever admit that.

“How long have you been playing?”

You could tell he was shy, so you didn’t want to force him if he wasn’t comfortable, but if you could help him relax, maybe he’d be happy to talk more. John had such a gorgeous voice, you’d only heard him speak a few words but you knew you could very easily listen to him all day.

“Few years. I was in this other band but gave it up when we all went off to uni.”

You nodded in Roger’s direction.

“I hope they’re nice to you. I know they can be a bit rowdy.”

“I’m always nice!” Roger said, just as you decided exactly what John’s eyes were, _beautiful_.

“Don’t let them talk over you, alright? You’ve got just as much say as they do.”

“I’ll try.”

You shared a smile, one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle again. _Fuck_.

It was almost a relief when Roger walked between you to flop down on the sofa, pushing a cup of tea into John’s hands as he passed.

“Where’s mine?”

“I’ve only got two hands, don’t I! ‘s bad enough I had to make my own in the first place, we’re your guests.”

“So this radio?” John said quickly before another argument started.

You went and grabbed it from your room, collecting your tea from the kitchen on the way back. You passed your little radio over with a tentativeness that John must have sensed because he held it with great care, turning it over in his big hands.

“It’s probably my fault. I was fiddling with it but now I can’t catch a frequency. It’d be great if you could fix it, I really can’t afford a new one right now.”

“I’ll have a go.”

He sat down in the armchair, switching your radio on. It immediately whined and crackled, and his little displeased frown made your heart flutter.

“Can I watch? I don’t wanna distract you but it’d be good to know for next time. Not that I could do any of this.”

John looked surprised that you’d asked. He glanced at Roger but he was fiddling with his necklaces, not paying the least bit of attention.

“‘Course you can,” John slipped off the armchair and sat on the carpet with his long legs crossed. “It’s easy. I’ll show you.”

You sat down beside him while he propped up the radio on the coffee table. Your hand accidentally brushed his thigh as you leaned closer and you felt your face heat up. You apologised but John just smiled that shy, delicious smile again, while you tried to forget the feeling of his velvet trousers under your fingers and the warmth of his strong thigh.

If Roger noticed you practically salivate when John pulled a little screwdriver from his jacket pocket, he didn’t say anything, which you were incredibly grateful for. You’d always had a thing for engineers, people who were good with their hands, and John Deacon fit the type.

You watched his long fingers as he fiddled with the dials and screws, hardly listening as he tried to explain what he was doing. He smelt so good, it was all you could think about, like _boy_ , and cigarette smoke, and the mints he must eat afterward to take away the taste, and whatever it was in his shampoo, maybe oranges or-

You jumped when your radio suddenly sprang to life. You missed John’s pleased, proud little smile, but Roger certainly didn’t miss the way he looked at you when you gasped happily and thanked him in an excited rush.

You turned it off and on again a few times, checking that it was all working, while John watched on confidently, sipping his tea.

“Well, either you’re a genius or I’m stupider than I thought,” you laughed, wondering how on earth he’d been able to fix it so quickly when you’d been fiddling with it for weeks.

“You’re not stupid.”

For the first time since he came in, John held your gaze and kept it. It made you forget where you were for a few moments, which was a bit embarrassing. He shifted and his leg brushed your fingers again, the velvet so soft under your hand, you barely resisted the urge to smooth it all the way up his thigh.

“So you must be a genius.”

“Well…”

“Oh, where’s all that sweet modesty gone?”

Still reeling from being called ‘sweet’, John shrugged.

“I’m modest about most things,” he smiled. “But I _am_ a bit of a genius, yeah.”

Roger groaned, breaking the tangible tension between you. He kicked out his feet, swinging his legs off the sofa and leaving his empty cup on the coffee table in one smooth movement.

“Oi, stop flirting, we’ve gotta go.”

Roger kissed the top of your head, just dodging out of the way as you swung for his knees. You didn’t look at John, just praying he couldn’t see how pink your face was.

“Bye, love.”

“Yeah, _bye_ , Rog.”

You showed them to the door, radio in hand, still marvelling at how quickly he’d got it to work.

Roger waved at you over his shoulder. Your goodbyes were always brief, you knew you’d be seeing each other again soon so you never bothered with anything more than a quick kiss and a short word.

Roger was already halfway to the stairs but John hung back, hovering in the doorway. He thumbed at his nose again, you wondered if he always did it when he was nervous.

“It was nice meeting you, John,” you offered when he still didn’t say anything.

He looked almost relieved that you’d spoken first, he was still floundering for something to say.

“You too.”

John realised he was still holding his cup of tea. He hadn’t had a chance to finish it, his visit was so brief. He handed it to you, then immediately put his hands in his jacket pockets.

“It should be fine now but if it gives you any more trouble-”

Once again, you were interrupted by Roger, yelling at the top of his voice from the stairwell.

“Deaky! If we’re late to rehearsal, I’m telling Brian it was cos you were trying to pull!”

John gave you a wry smile and you laughed softly.

“See you later.”

“Thanks again.”

He gave you one last gorgeous smile, one last look at those lovely creases around his eyes, and then he was gone, hurrying after Roger, who was still calling his name.

You shut the door, turning your radio over in your hands, beaming.

“Deaky,” you murmured, and your smile grew.

* * *

It was always easy to find Roger in a pub. He was usually in the corner and usually smoking, but what made it easy was that he was usually with Brian. You could spot those curls from a mile away. 

Weaving through the crowds, avoiding elbows and drinks and stray darts, you reached their table and dumped your bag down so hard that it made the boys jump.

“I need John’s number.”

Roger had almost spilled his beer all over himself and was still trying to mop up the foam from his jacket lapel when he asked,

“John who?”

You slapped his arm, not hard at all, but Roger still yelped and finally put his drink down before he lost any more of it. 

“John _Deacon_. The boy in your band.”

“The _man_. We’re _men_.”

“Roger-”

“I’ve got hair on me chest an’ everything.”

“I’ve seen your chest and no you haven’t.”

While Brian laughed, Roger narrowed his eyes at you, still rubbing his arm bitterly 

“I thought you needed a favour.”

“I need a _number_.”

“What’s wrong?” Brian asked. “Did he do a bad job?”

“No, he was great, that’s the point.”

“What is?”

“He’s good at fixing things and-”

Roger raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, is he now.”

“And my _heating’s gone_ ,” you pressed on, ignoring his insinuation. 

You’d just got home from work, desperate for a shower and a lie down, preferably with your new book and several glasses of wine, but when you stepped into the shower, the water was so cold, your shriek almost shattered the mirror.

You’d been trying to get hold of your landlord all afternoon and when he finally answered, he said he wouldn’t be able to get anyone to take a look at it till the end of the week. You couldn’t afford to hire anyone yourself, and John Deacon had such lovely eyes…

Roger pushed back his chair, offering you his seat while he went to the bar to get another drink. 

“We’re seeing him later, I’ll tell him to pop by. Don’t make him late for rehearsal tomorrow.”

Brian tactfully hid his smile behind his glass as you swung for Roger again but he was already out of reach, anticipating your reaction.

Against your better judgement, you did let your mind wander to John, as it had many times in the week since you’d last seen him. There was something so _enrapturing_ about him, even the way he moved was fascinating, the way his clever eyes swept around the room, his soft curly hair so carefully arranged. He was gorgeous from the pretty little stars on his silk shirt to the suede boots that made him even taller than he already was.

Yes, you wanted to see him again, you wanted to see more of him, all of him, but you didn’t tell the boys that, you wouldn’t survive the humiliation of them knowing you had a _crush_ , especially on their sweet, shy bass player. The thought made you smile as Roger came back to the table with a drink for you too.

“Do you think he ever wears those overalls you see mechanics wear?”

Roger pressed his lips together, disappointed but not surprised. 

“Easy, tiger.”

* * *

It was late when the doorbell rang. 

Your roommate had left for work hours ago, downcast because she couldn’t have a shower. You’d assured her that you’d arranged for someone to sort it but you didn’t even know that John _could_ fix your boiler, and now it was so late and Roger still hadn’t called, you weren’t sure that he was coming.

When the bell finally rang, you were glad that you’d decided against getting into your pyjamas, but as you rushed to answer the door, running all the way through your flat from your bedroom, you remembered you’d already taken your makeup off and swore under your breath just before you opened the door.

John was just as breathtaking as you remembered. You’d tried to persuade yourself that the image of him you’d formed in your head must be a romanticised ghost of the boy who sat cross-legged on your carpet, fixing something that meant so much to you. But no, he really was beautiful, and it took you a moment to get your head around it before you finally spoke.

“Thanks for coming so quick.”

You stepped aside, letting him in, almost swooning when you saw the tool bag he carried. You’d never known a boy to be so manly and so pretty at the same time, it was almost dizzying.

“Rog said your heating’s gone.”

“I dunno if you know anything about it but you’re the only person I can ask.”

“What about your landlord?”

“Last time I told him something needed fixing he told me he’d sort it and…”

You pulled a face and John laughed softly, nodding to say he understood only too well.

“I’ll take a look.”

You showed him the boiler, tucked between the cupboards in your kitchen. You couldn’t make head nor tail of it, and had probably made everything much worse by pressing every button you could find, wishing and praying that some combination would make it flicker into life but with no luck. 

You chewed your lip as John popped open a little panel on the front of the boiler you didn’t even know was there. You had to jump up to reach it, resting your knees on the counter. John was so tall, he hardly had to reach at all, although it did make the front of his shirt ride up a little and before you forced yourself to look away, you let your gaze travel over his stomach, lingering on the little trail of hair that led below the hem of his trousers. 

You thought about kissing his soft skin, wondering if it would make him gasp or even moan, but then John made a little thoughtful noise and you looked away, swallowing hard.

“How’s the band?” you asked, trying to distract yourself. “Still holding your nerve?”

John laughed softly. It was a really lovely laugh. Of course it was. _Fuck’s sake._

“Good. They still argue like mad but we’ve got a lot of ideas down. Been pretty productive recently, actually. We should have a new album soon. There, that should do it!” 

He stepped back and you looked up, surprised, just in time to see the little flame burst into life and the lights switch to orange. The boiler clunked and hummed, which you knew meant it had begun to heat the water. Just like your little radio, it had only taken him a few minutes to fix, and yet they meant so much to you.

You were so busy gawping at the boiler, you didn’t notice John take a pen from the sideboard and a scrap of paper out of his jeans pocket until it was right under your nose. 

“Here.”

You gave him a rueful smile, taking the slip of paper. Your heart somersaulted as your fingers brushed his.

“‘s this an invoice?”

“My number. Just in case you have anything else that needs taking a look at.”

He punctuated his words with a smile that started off small and grew until he covered his mouth with his hand, the one with the onyx ring on his fourth finger. You wondered whether he was just being polite or if he’d made a habit of covering his teeth. You hoped it was the former, you adored that little gap, but it was a crime to cover such a beautiful smile either way.

“Can I get you a drink? Or something to eat? My way of thanking you,” you asked, suddenly feeling brave.

“I should be getting home.”

John smiled gently but his eyes were tired, and you realised too late that the poor boy had been at work all day, then at a band meeting, before he crossed London in the middle of the night to help a girl he’d only just met.

He glanced back into your living room where your glass of wine and your book were still where you’d left them.

“I don’t wanna disrupt your evening.”

There hadn’t been much chance of him agreeing to stay, you knew you weren’t offering much, but you liked having him around and you were so lonely in your cold flat. John Deacon had made it a little warmer the moment he walked through the door, long before he fixed the boiler. 

Your disappointment must have flickered across your face, though you tried to keep it hidden. John reached out and gently brushed his fingertips against the back of your hand. It was hardly anything but it made you meet his gaze.

“Another time, though?” he asked, and that fantastic, eye-crinkling smile was back.

The skin on the back of your hand tingled. Such a gentle touch and yet it felt more powerful than if he’d actually held it. You’d never wanted to kiss anyone so desperately in all your life.

“Another time,” you said.

John beamed.

* * *

You stuck to your word. Sort of.

After John turned you down, your confidence had taken a bit of a hit, so instead of just asking him out like a normal person, you had turned to other means.

You never thought you’d be grateful for your light fitting suddenly sparking and short-circuiting, but seeing John outside your door with his tool bag again made your heart flutter so outrageously, it made it the best thing to happen to you all week. 

That was until he shrugged off his jacket and you saw he was wearing a t-shirt, and you got to see his bare arms for the first time, then _that_ was the best thing to happen to you all week.

It was succeeded when John dragged your coffee table out of the way to make room for a chair from the kitchen, and you got a fantastic view of his arms as they flexed, all slim lines and wiry strength. 

John stepped up on the chair, gently asking if you could pass things up to him, and you hardly heard him because now his arse was at eye-level, and every single thought left your head. _That_ was the best thing to happen to you all _year_.

But then two weeks went by and you didn’t see him. You saw poor Roger almost every day and he had to sit and listen to you not-so-subtly ask after John, always managing to bring the conversation back around to him until Roger got huffy and suggested, in a tone that suggested he was teetering on the edge of sanity, that you should just _call him._

That stumped you. You hadn’t thought of that.

When you got home, you realised you had no idea where you’d left his number. You searched the flat high and low, trying to keep quiet because your roommate had a rare day off and had chosen to celebrate by sleeping.

Finally, you remembered you’d tucked it into the back pocket of your jeans. It took you a while but eventually, you found the pair you were wearing that day. They’d been washed since then and the slip of paper John scribbled on was a little smudged but thankfully, the numbers were still legible. 

You went to grab the phone but stopped before you dialled. _What were you going to say?_ You put the handset back down and paced the living room, spinning the scrap of paper between your fingers.

Usually, you were fairly good at this. Asking people out was easy enough, you might’ve done it already if John weren’t quite so… John. 

You weren’t sure what it was about him, what it was about John that made him so enticing but so frightening. You’d never been so flustered by a boy before, he could make you forget your own name with just a smile, and when he got a shock and stuck his finger in his mouth, groaning crossly, you genuinely thought you might pass out. 

Something about him just made you panic. You could feel it now, all your rationality slowly slipping away. _God, his fingers…_

There was only one thing for it. You had to get him to come back to the flat somehow and since asking him if he wanted to catch a film or get dinner was out of the question, and getting Roger to help you wasn’t even an option worth considering, you had to build up some sort of rapport until you felt brave enough to ask him out, or die, whichever came first. 

Yes, that was a good plan. _Was it? Who cares._ You’d already made up your mind and no one was around to stop you. 

You picked up the phone again, hesitated, then dialled the number.

* * *

John became an almost weekly visitor after that. It was so strange, things just seemed to keep breaking in the flat. Bizarre.

In your defence, you did have genuine excuses at first. Your washing machine had always made a funny noise on certain settings and the tap in your bathroom had dripped all night long ever since you moved in. 

John fixed both of them with ease, along with a few other little jobs, even things he warned you he didn’t know all that much about. 

When you called about your awful television signal, he actually bought a manual with him that he borrowed from someone at work. He flicked through it as he worked, humming softly to himself, and it was so endearing, you almost kissed him right there and then.

After weeks of insisting, he finally began to accept cups of tea and the odd biscuit. Soon you had him eating lunch, just a sandwich or two. You’d say he was too skinny and he needed to build up his strength if he was going to be a world-famous rock star, and he’d laugh and say ‘fine, fine’ and let you bring him something to eat. 

Often, you ended up sitting on the floor of the living room, or the kitchen, eating together, laughing as he tried to show you what he was up to. You actually began to pick up a few things and could sometimes guess what he would do next, which would always make him beam with pride.

As the weeks went by, though, you had to get a little creative. You began to invent reasons for him to come over. You knew it was crazy, but asking John out on a date still felt terrifying, and so long as Roger never found out, it would be fine.

A couple of months after you first met, the speaker in your record player suddenly began to make a funny noise. Then it was the clock on the mantelpiece, the hoover, the cooker, all of which were mysteriously fine when John looked them over. 

You supposed after a few weeks, he must’ve guessed what you were doing, because even though everything seemed to be working fine, John always stayed to make sure. Perhaps he liked having you around too.

He began to stay later and later as the routine that you’d fallen into started to shift. John used to do his repairs, turn down your offer to pay him for his work, then go home. He still wouldn’t let you pay him, but he did accept dinner, or an invitation to watch the television until the programmes stopped, or play cards, or Scrabble, anything to keep him there and beat back the horrible loneliness that you’d been battling with.

He was still so sweet and so gentle, intelligent without ever showing off, and his shyness began to peel away the more time you spent together, so now you knew he had a surprisingly wicked sense of humour, and could be just as rowdy as his bandmates, given the chance. You’d never wanted anyone so desperately in all your life.

Sitting beside him on the sofa was almost torturous. Watching the television in comfortable silence, you somehow always ended up sitting right next to each other. Sometimes his arm would rest along the back of the sofa, his fingers just brushing your shoulder, and you knew with one gentle touch, he could pull you against his chest and hold you, if he wanted to.

That night, his thigh pressing against yours was extraordinary and awful at the same time. You’d missed half the programme you were watching because all you could think about was how warm he was, how gorgeous his stupid, long legs were, and how easy it would be to just slip into his lap and roll your hips against his, your hands in his hair, making him moan into your mouth.

It was enough to make you sweat but you couldn’t seem to pull yourself away from him, especially when John began to absent-mindedly circle the tip of his index finger against your shoulder. 

You looked up at him. He had his eyes on the telly but his finger was still circling and circling. Against your better judgment, you thought about John’s long fingers slipping past the band of your underwear, curling into you, still circling and circling but now around your clit as you pressed your face into his neck, gasping his name, whining for more. 

You pressed your thighs together, shifting in your seat. It made him look down at you. John seemed to realise what he was doing and stopped, but his face was very close to yours now. He held your gaze, then his pretty eyes fell to your lips. You held your breath. 

John looked up again. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, dragging the skin, and you almost moaned, wishing you could do that for him. 

John opened his mouth but seemed to change his mind and shut it again. He looked away, then pulled his arm back and checked his watch. He gave you a sad smile and said he should be getting home.

* * *

The next night in the pub, Roger practically fell into the seat beside you. 

“Listen, I don’t know what you’ve done to John but can you just ask him out?”

Eyes wide, you shook your head, talking through a mouthful of chips.

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s written a song. It’s his first one.”

“Oh, good for him!”

“You haven’t bloody heard it yet.”

You frowned, confused.

“What’s it called?”

* * *

You didn’t see John for almost a month after that. You worried you’d done something wrong, the moment on the couch sprang to mind, but when Roger called after a long day at the studio, he reassured you that they’d just been rushed off their feet lately getting the new album out.

He brought round a copy a few days later, spinning it proudly between his fingers. ‘Sheer Heart Attack’ was fantastic, you loved every track, but you almost dropped the album the second Roger handed it over.

He promised he had no say on the cover, their photographer just thought it would be eye-catching. You had to agree. It would certainly stand out on the shelves, you just weren’t expecting to see John gazing up at you with his shirt open, eyes dark, covered in a sheen of sweat. Roger grinned at the look on your face as if to say ‘you’re welcome’.

You wanted to ask if John had mentioned you at all but thought that was taking things a bit too far. Roger didn’t bring him up at all after that, and you wondered if something really had gone wrong and you just hadn’t cottoned on yet. But no, you were just being paranoid. Or were you? _Oh, for fuck’s sake._

Through some stroke of luck disguised as tragedy, a week later, your roommate woke you up from your nap, shrieking at the top of her voice because there was filthy water pouring out of the kitchen sink. You stood there in horror, staring at the awful mess until you both snapped out of it.

Between you, you managed to stop the water flowing but your kitchen floor was swamped. Your roommate offered to stay and help clean up but you let her go, her shift would be starting soon and it’s not like you had anything else on. Not your best Friday night ever, but certainly not your worst.

You managed to get the kitchen tidied with the phone wedged between your shoulder and your ear, trying to get ahold of your landlord, but there was no answer. With a resigned sigh and a glance at the sofa, you pulled out that precious slip of paper.

When John arrived just half an hour later, he looked so good, it actually stumped you for several moments. You thanked God that Roger wasn’t with him, there would be endless jokes about never seeing you having trouble talking before, and then he would pick at you all evening, asking what on _earth_ could have made you so speechless.

“Oh,” you said, which was stupid. John gave you a politely confused smile and you shook your head. “Sorry. You look nice. Are you on your way out?”

He looked more than nice, he looked fucking _delicious_. From his white silk shirt, unbuttoned almost to his navel, to his tight trousers and black and white platform shoes, John looked absolutely fantastic.

You practically had to wipe the drool from your mouth as you took him in, the antagonising dusting of hair on his chest, the silk jacket, the faint swipe of eyeliner. He looked incredible.

You were so busy just taking him in, you missed John’s faint blush, feeling suddenly very small under your wandering gaze despite being so much taller than you. No one had ever looked at him so hungrily and it made his tight trousers just that little bit more restrictive.

“We’ve got a gig tonight.”

That snapped you out of it. You must’ve looked as appalled as you felt because John laughed softly.

“Then what are you doing here?” You tried to shoo him back out into the hall. “Forget me, you should go!”

“It’s okay,” John laughed again. “I’ve got a few hours yet. I’m always early.”

You remembered what Roger has said about his new song, track ten, and quietly nodded.

He hadn’t mentioned what happened the last time he was here, how close you came to… Well, who knows? John didn’t seem uncomfortable at all. Maybe he’d forgotten all about it, which was fine, that was completely _fine_ , you certainly hadn’t been obsessing over it for weeks, not at all, nope. 

You led him through to the kitchen. Thankfully you’d mopped up the floor, it was embarrassing enough that you had to call him over again, you didn’t want your flat to seem off-putting.

You explained what happened as best you could, you were still a little distracted by how good he looked. John put his tool bag down and you had to look away. His arse in those trousers was just _divine_ , but then he rolled the cuffs of his sleeves up a little, his long fingers fiddling with the cuffs, and you swore you felt a rush of heat between your thighs.

John caught you looking again. He gave you a small smile, his brows lowered, questioning. You knew you weren’t getting out of it this time.

“You look good,” you said. “That’s a nice suit.”

John bashfully looked back at his noncompliant cuffs, his smile spreading wide enough that you caught a glimpse of the little gap between his teeth.

“Thanks. Freddie knows this girl, a stylist. She’s great, she’s got all these mad ideas, but she toned it down for me.”

He still couldn’t get his sleeves to roll up, the silk was too slippery, the fit too tight, and you always made him a little stumbly and nervous, so in the end, he just gave up.

You felt a twinge of sympathy and gently put your hands over his.

“Here,” you laughed. “Let me take your jacket.”

Your hands hovered by his lapels until he smiled and nodded, giving you permission, and you gently tugged his jacket from his shoulders, leaving him in just the silk shirt.

Your fingers brushed against the material as you pulled away. The silk was so fine, it felt almost like water against your skin. Without thinking about it, you let your fingers graze over his chest again, mesmerised by the feeling and the smell of John’s cologne.

Too late, you realised what you’d done. You looked up, face flushed, to find John watching you intently. You watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard before breaking into a shy grin.

“I should-”

“Yeah.”

It didn’t take John long to find the source of the problem. He did try to explain it to you, something to do with the pipes beneath your sink, but you were so busy wondering if his hair was as soft as it looked that you barely took any of it in.

When he stood up and proudly patted the sink, you could’ve cried at the gorgeous, self-satisfied smile on his face.

“All done! Need me for anything else?”

“No, that’s all this time. Thanks, John.”

You were just about to let him go when a thought struck you. You didn’t want to make him late but you couldn’t let John leave without congratulating him on the new album.

“Oh, I almost forgot!”

You hurried over to the record player and slipped ‘Sheer Heart Attack’ out from your collection, holding it up for him to see.

“It’s amazing, John. My favourite one yet.”

John laughed softly as he pulled his jacket back on, pressing his tongue against the gap between his teeth.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“You should be really proud of yourself. I can’t believe my handyman is famous!”

You laughed, looking down at the album, just brimming with pride. But when you looked up at John again, his smile had faded. Then you realised what you’d said and you felt your face pale. 

You tried to explain, to take it back, but once again, John looked at his watch, gave you a paper-thin smile, and said that he had to go.

The sound of the door softly clicking shut behind him echoed through the empty flat. You sat down on the edge of the sofa, feeling stupid and selfish and ridiculous. It was your loneliest night yet.

* * *

A dark cloud hung above your head for the rest of the week. You couldn’t believe you’d spoken so carelessly. But then, maybe you weren’t far from the truth. You _had_ treated John like your handyman. The only reason you called him was when you needed something. You were surprised he hadn’t got fed up with you sooner. 

You groaned, pressing your hands over your face, miserable and confused and longing for the boy with the pretty green eyes. You’d been a complete arsehole. Instead of just being a grown-up and asking John out for a drink, you’d turned him into some kind of errand boy.

Perhaps what hurt the most was that John seemed to like you too, why else would he stay every time? God, that sweet boy. He always came when you called, in spite of everything.

Once again you found yourself complaining about it in the pub to Roger, drowning your sorrows in the drink he’d bought you, and once again, poor Roger knew he had to step in.

The knock at your door the next evening shouldn’t have surprised you, not after the delighted spark you’d seen flash in Roger’s eyes when you told him you wished you could just make things right.

You sighed, dragging yourself off the sofa, and went to see who on earth it could be at this hour. As you opened the door, your breath caught in your throat, and you practically choked on the name that had been circling your head for months. 

“John.”

He looked up at you as the door opened. He had the corner of his thumb between his teeth but dropped his hand the second he saw you. John gave you his usual broad smile but it was tinged with nerves.

“Roger told me to come round but he wouldn’t say why. Are you okay?” 

He bounced a little on the balls of his feet, his long fingers fidgeting at his sides. You wondered how it could be possible that you could fall in love with someone all over again.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I- Come in, come in.”

You ushered him inside, leaning back against the door for a moment whilst you tried to catch your breath and get your bearings.

John stood in the middle of your living room, just like he did the very first time he came over. He looked good tonight. Of course he did, he always looked good, but somehow he looked even better than usual which was honestly a little unfair.

“I told Roger I wanted to talk to you,” You gave him a weak smile. “He’s a lot more proactive than me.”

“What did you wanna talk to me about?” 

By the door stood a little table where your key dish lived beside a bedraggled looking pot plant. Tonight, wedged beneath your keys, was a small bundle of folded notes. You scooped the money into your hands, thumbing through it as you moved towards John.

“I don’t earn very much but me and my roommate managed to scrape together, er…”

You realised you hadn’t actually counted how much you’d gathered together, you didn’t think you’d be seeing him so soon, but you quickly gave up, too flustered to try.

“Well, I dunno, but it should be enough to cover everything.”

You held out the money but John didn’t even glance at it. Instead, he gave you a small smile.

“You don’t have to pay me.”

You sighed, stepping closer.

“You’ve done so much for me, John.”

“Friends and family discount.”

“At least let me do _something_.”

“It’s fine!” John laughed, gently pushing your hand away. “It’s just nice being with you.”

You looked at each other for a moment, his words hanging between you, tethering you together. Suddenly the thought of moving away from him felt impossible, and so awful, it wasn’t even worth imagining. It wasn’t that you felt stuck to the floor but if you _were_ to move, it would have to be forwards, towards John.

He gave you a bashful sort of smile and brushed at his nose, then scratched the back of his head, before finally deciding to just put his hands in his pockets. You wondered if it was the situation that was making him shy, or you.

You shoved the money into your back pocket. John was never going to accept it but you’d just slip it into his jacket when he wasn’t looking, or give it to Roger to pass on.

“Well, I’m very grateful,” you said, delighted by the rosy pink colour of his cheeks.

John bashfully bit his bottom lip but he was smiling so wide, you had to watch as he dragged it between his teeth until he was grinning at you, then down at the floor. You realised you were smiling too.

You offered him a cup of tea, testing the waters, wondering if he’d accept, hoping that he’d stay. John didn’t glance at his watch, he didn’t hesitate or look as if you’d caught him on the back foot. He just smiled, said that would be nice, and followed you into the kitchen.

While you waited for the water to boil, you switched on your radio, the one John had so kindly fixed for you. He beamed as music filled the room and you talked for a little while about the band, what you liked to listen to and what he liked to play. It was just like you were before things got tricky.

Feeling brave now that the air had cleared, you thought it might be safe to bring up what had been bothering you for the past week. You poured water into John’s mug, keeping your back to him whilst you steeled your nerves, all too aware of how close he was. You could feel him even though you weren’t touching, a magnetic pull, almost like your hair could stand on end if he moved even an inch nearer.

“John, what I said about having a famous handyman,” You turned around to face him, heart pounding against your ribs. “That’s not how I see you. I mean, I’m grateful but that’s not all I see you as.”

“It’s alright. I quite like being your handyman.”

John’s sheepish smile made your dimly lit flat just that little bit brighter. He held your gaze, something he’d had trouble with in the past, but now neither of you seemed to be able to look away.

The silence that fell between you was deafening, you were sure he must be able to hear how quickly your heart was beating, and the shaky in and out of your breathing.

His hands were in the back pocket of his jeans, pushing his hips forward, his pretty, flowery brown shirt unbuttoned just enough so that you could see the ridge of his collarbones. You wanted to run your tongue along them, make him gasp as you kissed up the column of his throat to lick into his mouth, curling your tongue around his.

“How _do_ you see me?” 

His question caught you off guard. John’s voice was low and soft, his eyes on you and only you. The radio was still playing softly, your cups of tea steaming on the counter. You opened your mouth but no sound came out. John’s gaze fell to your lips, just for a moment, but it felt like an eternity.

His heart was pounding at the proximity, his fingers itching to reach out for your hands, your face, your waist. John had been agonising over it for months, trying to figure out why he felt so drawn to you, why he couldn’t stop thinking about you, why every time he left your flat, the painful wrench in his chest felt like he’d left a part of him behind.

“Well…” You stumbled, mouth hanging open as you tried to figure out what to say. “You're…” 

John gave you another gorgeous smile, the corners of his mouth creasing just a little. He was so close now that you could see a little freckle by his jaw, the slope of his strong nose, his soft lips, the little curls of hair by his temples, his dark green eyes, _god_ , such gorgeous eyes, you could look at them forever. 

He stepped closer. He was so warm, you could feel it even though there was still a hand’s breadth between you, and he smelled so good, _so_ good. He was just so enticing and he didn’t even know it, or didn’t know the extent of it, so much taller than you but never imposing and so shy but so self-assured.

“I should get going,” John said. “Unless there’s something else you need me to take care of?”

It was a question he’d asked you before, only now it made your mouth dry. There was a moment, just a beat, and all you did was look at each other. Then the song on the radio changed and suddenly, John was kissing you.

You couldn’t imagine a more incredible sensation than his big hands on either side of your face, his mouth pressed so tight against yours, his nose crammed against your cheek. You couldn’t have even if you tried, all rational thoughts left your head as soon as his lips touched yours. 

John broke away to ask if you were alright and you breathlessly nodded, already pulling him back down to kiss you again by the collar of his shirt. He grabbed at your waist, his chest flush against yours, pulling you so tight against him but it still didn’t feel close enough as you kissed him with everything you had.

You whimpered as his lips moved against yours, your collective shyness gone. Unlike times before with other boys, you weren’t worried about how you sounded, or tasted, or felt. John was pushed up against you, and he wanted you, you _knew_ he wanted you, you _felt_ he wanted you, and suddenly you felt like the sexiest woman alive.

His tongue swept over your bottom lip and you let him in without a second thought, moaning as his tongue pressed against yours. He tasted even better than you imagined, like the peppermints he swore he wasn’t addicted to and just of John, _god_ , John, he was so excruciatingly delicious.

His hands slid down your sides while you gripped the front of his shirt for dear life. It felt like if you separated, even for a second, the spell would be broken, and this would all turn out to be a fantastic dream.

You felt John start to back you up against the kitchen counter, his long fingers pressing into your waist, but as soon as the cold metal of the drawer handle bit into your hip, something sparked in your chest. 

You wanted him, you wanted him so badly, and somehow you knew if you pushed back, just a little, John would let you have him, if you stopped going through the motions and relied on instincts, instincts that were urging you to take control.

With a deliciously wet sound, you broke away. John’s eyes were so dark as they flitted over your face, worried that he’d been too forward, but you kissed him quickly to reassure him.

His lips were pink from the force of your kisses. You couldn’t resist gently running your thumb over them, humming happily to yourself. You heard him shakily inhale and looked up, pleased to find John watching you closely. He had sensed a change in you and was eagerly waiting to see what you would do next.

Smiling, you pressed your thumb against his bottom lip, pulling down gently until they parted. The tip of his tongue brushed the pad of your thumb and you let it go again with a soft laugh before kissing him.

You pushed away from the counter, hands against his chest, your mouth never leaving his as you crossed the kitchen floor. Your feet got tangled as you shuffled together, the two of you only breaking the kiss to giggle excitedly, teeth clashing and noses bumping but you didn’t care. 

John groaned as you pinned his hips against the side, your thumbs pressing into him through the material of his jeans, then with your own hips, freeing your hands so that you could grab his arse, pulling him tight against you. You could already feel his cock getting interested and you’d barely got started, but now you were gazing up at him, confident and sure, and John’s cheeks were bright pink.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?” he gasped out, the corner of his gorgeous mouth twitching up into a smile.

You leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss right at the hollow of his throat.

“Problem?” 

“Definitely not. ‘m very happy for you to make me yours.”

His words sent a thrill through you, pooling in the pit of your stomach and between your thighs. You hadn’t realised just how wet you were until he grinned down at you, his big hands on your waist, thumbs stroking up and down. 

“Fucking hell, John,” you muttered, before crushing your lips against his again.

You reached an unspoken agreement, neither of you could go on a second longer without having each other. You tugged his hips against yours, again and again, rolling them together until you couldn’t stand the ache anymore and pulled his thigh between yours, grinding down to relieve the pressure, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.

Your desperation found new heights when John whimpered, and you realised you could feel him, hard and prominent through his jeans. You grinned against his mouth, flicking your tongue against his one last time before pulling away.

You felt so cold without him pressed against you, so you wasted no time, practically dragging John back into the living room, your mouth never leaving his until you pushed him down onto the sofa.

You practically fell into his lap, your mouth immediately finding his again. Now you’d got a taste of him, you couldn’t get enough. You’d fantasised about kissing John but the real thing was infinitely more heavenly than anything your imagination had devised. 

His mouth moved so deftly against yours despite the urgency, his tongue as clever as the fingers that squeezed your thighs. There was no shyness now, he wanted this, wanted you, and who were you to deny him?

You made quick work of his shirt, your fingers stumbling over the buttons while he pressed wet hot kisses against your neck, groaning every time your nails brushed his chest. One of his hands fell to your arse, the other staying on your thigh to keep you balanced as he rolled your hips against his, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he let out a low hiss.

You left his shirt on, too needy to waste time fiddling with sleeves and things. You had more than enough to enjoy anyway. Throwing his shirt open, you bent over him and sucked at his neck, groaning through teeth and tongue until his skin was covered in little marks. 

You followed the path of his blush down his neck to his chest, peppering him with kisses and bites until he was whining desperately, begging you to touch him.

With one hand, you lifted his chin so that he was looking up at you.

“You’ve got such pretty eyes, love. Keep ‘em on me.” 

John nodded as best he could with your fingers wrapped gently around his jaw, his mouth hanging open as he panted, just as desperate and needy as you were. 

With your free hand, you felt him through his jeans, running your fingers along the outline of him, and when John choked on your name, it made you suck in your bottom lip. He let out a long, desperate moan that made your head spin, your need only getting worse with every soft noise you drew from him.

You both giggled again as you stood up so that John could wriggle out of his jeans, his hands fumbling with the material in his eagerness. You laughed when they got stuck around his hips, so tight that he couldn’t get them off, and you noticed he’d also forgotten to take off his boots. Giddy and excited, you realised you didn’t care.

You shimmied out of your own jeans and fell back into John’s lap before he could get his trousers all the way down. His big hands wrapped around the backs of your bare thighs as you leaned over him, hands planted firmly on his broad shoulders.

“You doing alright, sweet boy?” you asked, tenderly pushing his sweaty hair back from his forehead.

There was a fine line between being clumsy with excitement and feeling overwhelmed without even realising it, and you couldn’t bear it if John wasn’t having a good time. But he smiled up at you.

“I need you,” He squeezed your thighs, then ran his hands round to your arse, giving you a little slap that made you gasp. “Please, please, love, I want you so bad.”

You didn’t need any more convincing than that.

You kissed him, slowly and gently, trying to convey that this wasn’t just a quick fumble on the couch to you, that this meant something. You could feel John smiling against your mouth and leaned back just in time to see those creases by his eyes before his smile faded and his gaze grew hazy with want.

He helped you out of your shirt, immediately squeezing your breasts in his big hands, running his thumb over the lacy material of your bra until he could feel your nipples harden against his palms.

You watched him play with you with a fond smile, breath catching every so often when his fingers brushed over your sensitive skin. You moaned with John as he pushed your breasts together, his wet lips parted and almost bruised from how hard he’d bitten them.

He pulled you closer and kissed your nipples through your bra, looking up at you as he grazed you with his teeth, then his perfect tongue. You couldn’t decide between holding his gaze and letting your head fall back, and in the end, it was all so much, your desire turned to desperation.

You slipped your hands into his stupid, lovely hair, as you started to move again, panting into each other’s mouths as your clothed heat met his hard length, still straining against his jeans.

You almost sobbed as the pressure and intensity built up to unmanageable levels, but then John reached between your thighs and began to rub you with his thumb through your underwear and you saw stars.

The choked moan that escaped you might’ve embarrassed you if you’d been with anyone else, but this was John, lovely John, and you hadn’t felt this safe or this at home in so long.

“Fuck, John, I- _Ah_!”

You had to slip one of your hands back down to his shoulder to keep yourself steady, your legs suddenly feeling too weak to hold you up as warm pleasure seeped through your muscles.

John’s fingers moved quickly against you, his calloused fingertips creating a friction you’d never experienced before. All those years of bass, you realised. Suddenly you couldn’t wait for their next gig, you’d be front and centre.

John tilted up his chin, inviting you to kiss him and you eagerly accepted, messy and sloppy now as your desperation grew. He broke away, eyes flitting down to wear his fingers were between your thighs, then met your gaze again just as he moved your underwear aside and slipped his fingers through your slick heat.

He grunted, twisting his wrist so that he could angle his fingers better, circling your clit, just as you had pictured that night on your couch.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned, pulling his fingers back for just a second to swipe his tongue over them, moaning at the taste of you before he got back to work.

Your eyes screwed shut, focusing on the feeling of his finger pressing into you, then another. You gasped and bucked your hips as the cold metal of his rings brushed against you, so sensitive that it almost finished you off right there.

“God, your rings,” you panted, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

“Should I take them off?”

“Nononono, feels so good, feels really good.”

John beamed up at you. You couldn’t believe how eager to please he was, how much he seemed to get off on the praise you showered him with as his fingers worked faster and deeper. But then maybe you should have known. You’d seen how blushy and shy he got whenever you complimented his work, how he always seemed to stand tall when you told him what a good job he’d done.

Even now, his gaze was focused despite the urgency with which you grabbed at each other. The little crease in his forehead, the way his lips pressed together, he was concentrating on making you feel good and nothing else, so attentive, absolutely enthralled.

“What made you so wet, love?” he asked, and even in your state, you couldn’t miss the marvel in his voice.

“You,” you gasped out. “Watching you work. Fuck, you’re so good with your hands.”

“How long have you wanted this?”

“Wanted _you_? From the moment I saw you.”

That made John smile, and you couldn’t resist kissing him, brushing his hair back from his face again with a gentleness that offset the heated look in your eyes.

The slightly rough skin on the pad of his finger was so good, all you could do was let the feeling wash over you, but as you bucked your hips against his hand, you pressed against his hard on and you heard John gasp, his finger stilling just for a moment.

In a sudden moment of clarity, you scrabbled at his jeans, pulling them and his underwear down far enough so that you could free his aching cock, only just stopping yourself from licking your lips as it strained against his stomach.

John’s cheeks were pink as you took him in. He’d wanted this from the moment you met too. Every lingering look, every time you brushed past him, every time you laughed at something he said, made sure he ate, gushed about how much you needed him and loved having him around, it had been building up for months.

He couldn’t get you off his mind. Now he could finally touch you, feel you, do all the things he’d been dreaming about doing, now he knew that you tasted just as good as you looked, and sounded even better than he thought possible, and for once John didn’t feel shy about being seen, because the look in your eyes as you took him in, it made him feel so safe and loved and wanted, he hardly knew what to do with himself.

With his hands on your arse again, squeezing you, keeping you close, you leaned forward and captured his lips in a searing kiss, messy and filthy, all tongue and teeth, his hard on trapped between you, rubbing against the soft skin of your tummy.

John gasped, fingers digging into your skin, words failing him for a second, it just felt so good.

“God, love, you make me so fucking har- _Ah_! _Fuck_!”

You’d wrapped your fingers around him for the first time and it made John cut himself off with an outstanding moan. It was so carnal that it actually made you blush and you stopped for a moment just to watch him throw his head back, face flushed, chest heaving.

You pressed open-mouthed kisses down his neck, pointed teeth catching against his skin as you grinned, pleased with yourself when he bucked into your hand.

“Always so good for me, always so good.”

You practically purred the words right by his ear, his breath warm against your neck as he gasped and moaned, arching his back off the sofa.

“Oh?” You pressed a kiss to his cheek, then under his jaw. “Did you like that, love? Do you like being my good boy?”

You flicked your tongue against the shell of his ear, pressing a final kiss right at the pulse point in his neck, and John couldn’t take it anymore.

“God, please, just fuck me, _please_ ,” he begged, head tilted back, mouth hanging open as another moan rolled through him.

You smiled.

“Since you asked so nicely.”

Though you hated being apart from him, even for a few seconds, you dragged yourself away. Luckily you’d left your purse on the coffee table in one of your usual bouts of laziness so all you had to do was lean back, John’s hands clutching your thighs to keep you from falling.

When you pulled out the condom, you almost didn’t want to look at John. Your roommate had seen one in your purse once and rattled on for hours about how unladylike it was, but John seemed more than fine with it.

You grasped him with one hand, swirling your thumb over the head, beaming as you noted that you weren’t the only one who was wet. John flushed, letting out a shaky moan as you rolled the condom on and gave him a few strokes.

“I bet you look so pretty when you cum,” You kissed his hot cheeks, twisting your wrist as you pumped your hand up and down his length. “You gonna show me, honey?”

He interrupted his beautiful little pants and whines with a broad smile, and there was that little gap in his teeth.

“Keep doing that and you won’t have to wait long.”

John’s eyes never left yours as you slid down onto him. You gasped, wriggling your hips a little until he was completely inside you. He felt so good, you could hardly think, hardly breathe. It had been so long since you’d been with anyone and the delicious stretch made your eyes squeeze shut while John let out a long, gorgeous, open-mouthed moan that rose higher and higher as you clenched around him.

“God, you feel so good, sweetheart.”

His voice was rough as he gently squeezed your hips, his red-bitten lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder as you got settled. Through the haze of pleasure, the sweet name made you smile. You could get used to him calling you that. 

John pulled you close, hands smoothing up and down your back, and asked if you were alright in a hoarse voice. Smiling, you cupped his face, thumbs sliding over his cheeks as you kissed him again, deep and slow, whispering that you were perfect, that _he_ was perfect.

You’d never felt so full, never needed anyone so badly, and as you started to move your hips and heard his ecstatic groan, you knew you would never want anyone else, just John, just your gorgeous, lovely, shy, clever, sweet John who would do anything for you, and wanted you just as badly as you wanted him.

He let his head fall back against the sofa, his hands still gripping your hips tight to help you keep a steady rhythm. John let out a soft ‘fuck’, face red, hands shaking, and you couldn’t believe he was yours, this ridiculously beautiful boy. The marks you’d left on his neck and chest and tummy sent another pang of pleasure through you, a sudden feeling of possessiveness. He was yours, all yours, and you were his.

“Mm, God, fuck me,” John whined, arching his back again.

He sounded so incredible you moaned in response. He was going to be the death of you.

“That’s so _hot_ , John, shut _up_.”

That made him laugh softly and he sat up, giving you a soft kiss, then slipped down the sofa a little, angling himself so that he could fuck up into you, swivelling his hips with every thrust. 

You pressed your hands down on his shoulders for support and picked up a steady rhythm, and when he thrust up to meet your movements, snapping his hips even harder than before, you choked on his name.

Soon enough, your movements grew sloppy and desperate as you drew closer, whispering sweetly to each other, groaning into each other’s mouth as you chased your highs, hardly kissing now, just wet lips sliding together, teeth catching.

John grabbed at your arse again, pulling down harder and harder, and you felt that familiar tension in your abdomen, like a rubber band about to snap. Your eyes squeezed shut, mouth hanging open in pure, unabashed pleasure, and with one more perfectly angled thrust, John hit that perfect spot inside you.

“John- I’m-” 

You choked on the words as you felt yourself tighten around him, then heat bloomed inside you and you tensed, moaning wordlessly as he gripped your thigh, pulling you so close it almost hurt. You whimpered as John huffed by your ear, cumming deep inside you with a series of sharp thrusts until you collapsed against each other, moaning and panting, sweaty and tired but in such a state of euphoria, it didn’t matter.

You groaned, sinking into John with a broad smile, muscles trembling, unable to hold yourself up any longer. You felt him run a hand through your hair, pushing it back from your forehead and tucking it behind your ear, and you almost cried from the tenderness of it all.

You raised your head to kiss him, whimpering when he sat up a little, and you clenched around him a final time.

John beamed at you. No one had ever looked at you with such open, bright adoration before, especially not after sex. His chest rose and fell heavily beneath your palm. His heart was pounding, just for you.

“You made up all that stuff so I’d come fix things, didn’t you?” he asked.

You looked at each other for a moment until you broke and let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head.

“Not all of it.” You pressed a sweet kiss to his forehead, feeling sheepish. “I know it’s crazy.”

“A bit.” John couldn’t stop smiling if he tried. “But it’s also very sweet.”

You huffed and covered your face, embarrassed, but John groaned in complaint and gently pulled them away again. He held them in his own, his hands so much bigger than yours, hands that had done so much for you, and pressed them to his chest.

“I just like having you around,” you admitted. “You’re so lovely and I… I’ve been a bit lonely, I s’pose.”

John smiled, reaching up so that he could bump his nose against yours, kissing you softly while your radio played.

“I can fix that.”


End file.
